


The Good Memories

by MimiWritesHerFandoms



Series: Dean Winchester and Donna Hanscum [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8053777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiWritesHerFandoms/pseuds/MimiWritesHerFandoms
Summary: This is the much requested and highly anticipated sequel to One Thing.





	The Good Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Italics indicate a flashback.

This is the much requested and highly anticipated sequel to  [ One Thing ](http://deansdirtylittlesecretsblog.tumblr.com/post/147618324186/one-thing) . 

Author:   [ Dean’s Dirty Little Secret ](http://deansdirtylittlesecretsblog.tumblr.com/)

Characters:  Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Word Count:  3881

Warnings:  Language, implied smut, tiny bit of angst

Author’s Notes:  Italics indicate a flashback. Beta’d by the amazing @mamapeterson. This took a while to get out, I was agonizing over getting it just right.

****************************************************************************************************************************

_ He notices her right away, the curvy blonde tucked back in the corner of the bar, by herself. She’s pretty, gorgeous really, though he’s sure she doesn’t realize it. She sits with her shoulders slumped forward, turned away from the room, head down, hair falling over her face. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone and when she does, she quickly looks away. The couple of times he’s passed by her, going back and forth to the bar, she’s seemed to almost fold in on herself, trying to hide in plain sight. He’s curious as to why she’s in a crowded bar when she’s so obviously uncomfortable. _

_ He knows she’s watching him, he can feel the weight of her stare across his shoulders. In return, he watches her, though he’s much more subtle, more practiced. He doesn’t let his gaze linger too long; doesn’t want to scare her away. He’s patient. _

_ His opening comes when she gets up and disappears into the bathroom. He drops the pool cue to the table, ignoring the advances of the college girl who’d been chatting him up, and excuses himself. Her jacket is still in the booth, an almost empty drink, a plate of french fries, and some shredded straw wrappers litter the table. He sits down, tosses his jacket on top of hers and signals the waitress. _

_ He knows the second she comes out of the bathroom, hears her unnecessary apology to the waitress who runs into her, sees her confusion when she sees him at her table, the instant flash of fear in her eyes. She wants to run. She’s been hurt before. The thought makes him want to punch someone. _

_ “Hi,” he grins as he stuffs a french fry in his mouth. _

* * *

Ten years and Dean still thinks about her with a frequency that was probably just this side of crazy. He’d given up hope long ago of ever seeing her again, cursed himself out numerous times for not getting her name and her number, even gone back to that bar a few times on the off chance he’d run into her. He couldn’t quite figure out what it was about her that so consumed him, not that he tried very hard to figure it out. Instead, he let himself get lost in the memory, let the daydreams of her take him away on those particularly lonely nights when the weight of his life sat heavy on his shoulders. Memories of her made him feel better, for awhile anyway. He’d long ago accepted the fact that his life was a shitstorm of crazy and he’d never be able to live a normal one, especially with a woman like her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have his fantasies.

He found himself thinking about her at odd times - sitting in the library doing research, in the car on a long drive, while he waited for Sam to come out of the convenience store with his daily cup of sludge, even a few times in the midst of a hunt. It always surprised him when it happened, though he didn’t try to fight it. She was one of the good memories.

If he had time, he would linger over the memory of her, the memory of that night. He’d think about the way she’d smiled, the tilt of her head, the way her blonde hair looked like an angel’s halo as it framed her face, her giggle - sweet, innocent, a little breathy, fucking sexy. And the sex, Jesus Christ, the sex. He couldn’t think about that for long, couldn't let himself fall down that hole, not unless he was alone, because inevitably it ended with him gasping and panting, his hand down the front of his pants, eyes squeezed shut, recalling _e_ _ very _  detail.

He thought about her so much that he was starting to see her, or women he thought were her, all the time. A blonde head moving through a crowd would catch his eye, and he’d think it was her, he’d see a voluptuous woman round a corner and he’d be convinced he’d just missed her. Even that time the Benders had grabbed Sam, Dean swore up and down that the blonde deputy working in the back corner of the Hibbing police station was her.

That’s what was on his mind when they walked into the Stillwater station in search of the sheriff, how he’d thought he’d seen her all those years ago. He was smiling to himself, staring at his feet, while Sam asked for the sheriff. Straight to the top, that was their philosophy. Don’t bother with the people who didn’t know what was going on, always ask for the guy in charge. Or the woman in this case. Sheriff Donna Hanscum.

He was staring out the window at the diner across the street, visions of apple and pecan pie dancing through his head when he heard Sam introduce them, giving their fake names, Frehley and Criss. He put on his serious “I’m an FBI agent” face, straightened his suit jacket and turned around.

If he hadn’t had years of practice lying and keeping a straight face no matter what was thrown his way, he probably would have done something ridiculously un-agent like and made a fool of himself when he realized the sheriff standing on the other side of the waist-high counter was  _ her _ . Her blonde hair was pulled back away from her face, her warm, brown eyes were smiling, her uniform was loose, hiding the curves he knew were under there. Curves he’d run his hands over, curves he’d imagined touching every -

He blinked his eyes several times, trying to clear the images in his head, doing everything he could to keep his face neutral, professional. After all, what exactly do you say to a woman you’d slept with ten years ago? “Hi, I’m Dean, you probably don’t remember me, but we slept together ten years ago and I’ve thought about you almost everyday since.” Yeah, that would go over well. Not even a little creepy.

Good thing Sam was doing all the talking, because Dean wasn’t sure he could. For the first time in he didn’t know how long, if ever, he was flustered, speechless, unsure of what to say or do. He felt like an idiot staring at her, which was probably why she was blushing and doing everything she could to avoid meeting his gaze. He couldn’t help himself though, his eyes followed her as she hurried off to find the file Sam had requested.

* * *

_ Twenty minutes of small talk later, he stands up and slides into the booth beside her, his arm on the back of the booth, his fingertips resting on her shoulder. He smiles down at her, the chocolate brown of her eyes nearly drowning him. _

_ “I saw you watching me,” he says. He presses his thigh against hers, leaning a little closer, not a lot, but enough. She smiles nervously. “I was wondering why you didn’t come talk to me? Seeing as how you seemed so interested in me.” He can smell the shampoo in her hair, vanilla and strawberries. _

_ She shrugs, heat flooding her cheeks. “I-I don’t show,” she stammers. “Sh-shy, I guess.” _

_ “No reason to be shy, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He winks, a surefire way to get any woman to fall head over heels for him in about two seconds flat. He gives her shoulder a squeeze and smiles. _

_ She giggles; it’s flirty and breathy and he wants to hear it again, maybe hear it everyday for the rest of his life. The thought knocks him off-kilter; it’s different and something he’d thought he’d put behind himself after things had gone south with Cassie. He pushes it down, pretends to ignore it, and focuses on her, moving closer, his arm no longer on the back of the booth, but resting lightly on her shoulders, his entire body pressed to her side. She’s nervous, more nervous than she was a few minutes ago, he can actually feel her trembling. He tries to take her mind of of what’s happening between them, ease things along. He takes a sip from his beer and for some reason, he starts talking about Sam, which he never does, not since he went off to school. It feels good to talk about his brother. _

_ He likes sitting here with her, telling her things, likes how she actually seems to be listening to him, likes the way she smells, the way she feels sitting beside him, tucked under his arm. He likes everything about it. Likes everything about her. _

_ “What do you say we get out of here?” he blurts. It shocks him as it comes out of his mouth, but he doesn’t want to take it back. He wants her alone, all to himself. _

_ She chokes on her drink, spits it back into the glass. He jumped too soon, expected too much from her. He slides his arm off of her shoulder, hears himself mumbling something about no pressure, considers apologizing and going back to the pool table. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until she clamps a hand down on his thigh. He stops, takes a deep breath, and gives her a smile. _

_ She’s shaking her head, blonde curls falling into her face. He wants to push the stray hairs out of her eyes, but he stops himself. It’s too intimate, too soon. _

_ “No, you, uh, took me by surprise,” she’s saying. “I mean...there probably isn’t a woman in this place that wouldn’t kill to leave with you and most of them are far better looking than I am...and...well, not -”  _

_ She gestures to herself, a slight grimace flitting across her face, one shoulder raising in a half-shrug. It bothers him that she thinks he’s judging her, but what bothers him more is that she’s judging herself, probably thanks to a lifetime of assholes doing just that. She looks up at him and he can see it in her eyes. _

_ He smiles, those brown eyes drawing him in, deeper than he ever would have thought possible. He wants to hold her, make all the bad go away. He kisses her, a quick brush of his lips over hers, and puts his hand over hers, squeezing it. _

_ “Let me tell you one thing. You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, his lips against hers. “And I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass, sweetheart. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” _

_ She nods at him, catching her lower lip between her teeth, making heat rush through him, an ache pulsing low in his gut. How the hell can she not know how gorgeous she is? He pulls her from the booth, her hand in his, rushing a little, because if he doesn’t get her out of here right now he might not be completely responsible for his actions. Money on the table and jackets in hand, he leads her out of the bar. _

* * *

As soon as Mala left, Sam settled himself in front of his laptop, his back to his brother, the silence deafening. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily. Same shit, different day. He could use a drink. He grabbed his keys and his suit jacket and without looking back or saying a word to Sam, he left.

He didn’t intend for it to happen, but somehow he ended up at the diner across the street from the police station. Or maybe he had intended to end up there, eating apple pie, occasionally glancing out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sheriff.

“Not creepy,” he mumbled to himself. He shook himself free of the thoughts running through his head, thoughts of that night so long ago, and tried to concentrate on his food, instead of staring out the window and wondering “what if.” He tried to focus on the case and what was killing people in Stillwater. He pulled out his phone, checking over some of the notes he’d made to himself, hoping maybe something would come to him.

He saw someone enter the diner out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t paying close attention, especially since he didn’t sense a threat. It wasn’t until he heard the waitress say, “Good evening, Sheriff Hanscum,” that he looked up.

She was seated at the counter, rolling her shoulders as if she was stiff and uncomfortable. She was staring into her cup of coffee, occasionally sipping from it. She didn’t take off her jacket, didn’t make herself comfortable, didn’t order anything more besides the coffee.

Dean watched her for a few minutes, arguing with himself about whether or not he should talk to her. He could leave well enough alone, take care of this case and drive out of town, keeping her as a good memory. Or he could go talk to her, maybe open a door he thought was permanently closed. He stared into his coffee cup for several minutes, weighing the pros and the cons of both options, then he pushed himself to his feet, before he lost his nerve.

He reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. “Sheriff Hanscum?” 

“Agent Criss. Hi!” Donna sat up straighter, pulling at the cuffs of her uniform, fiddling with her tie. “I didn’t see you there.” She smoothed her hair, her cheeks flushing pink. It made her look just as beautiful as he remembered.

“May I?” he asked, pointing at the seat beside her.

“Sh-sure,” she stammered.

Dean slipped into the seat beside her. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but there was no turning back now. He rested his arm on the back of her seat.

“You okay, Sheriff?” he whispered.

“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, nodding, lips pressed tightly together, cheeks still a pretty shade of pink, blonde curls falling from her ponytail and around her face.

“You look about as nervous as you did the first time I met you,” he chuckled.

Donna’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open in a perfect O. He licked his lips, fidgeting a bit in his seat, forcing himself not to grab her and kiss her right there. But, God, did he want to kiss her.

“Um, I’m sorry?” She stared into her cup of coffee, obviously intent on not looking him in the eye.

“Don’t remember me, huh?” He nudged her playfully with his elbow, holding his breath, convinced she didn’t remember him and he was about to make a fool of himself.   

She turns to him, a soft smile on her face, those brown eyes lit up. “Oh, I remember you,” she murmurs. “But I can’t believe you remember me.”

“Sweetheart, not only do I remember you and every second of that night,” Dean purred. “But I think about it all the time.”

* * *

The next couple of hours was oddly reminiscent of the night he first met Donna. He talked, she listened, her cheeks stained a perpetual shade of pink, her brown eyes warm and inviting, her lips begging him to kiss her. They skirted the issue of that first night together, not really talking about, more like acknowledging it happened and moving on. He even managed to keep up the FBI persona, using the last name Criss, though he did tell her his first name was Dean. It bothered him to lie to her, another first. Lying was second nature to him, especially lying to women about who he really was. It shouldn’t bother him to lie to Donna. But it didn’t sit right with him, not being honest with her.

Sitting there in the diner with her, was comforting, intimate. He loved every second of it. It wasn’t until the waitress starting clearing her throat and looking pointedly at her watch that he realized how late it had gotten.

Donna rose to her feet, a shy smile on her face. “Would you like to come back to my place for a cup of coffee?”

Dean chuckled and glanced at the cup of coffee sitting in front of him. He didn’t know how it was possible, but Donna blushed an even darker shade of pink when she realized what she had said. She looked like she might turn tail and run.

“I’d love a beer, though,” he said, hurriedly, jumping to his feet, his hand on her arm. 

Donna nodded, more hair falling from her ponytail into her face, and this time, he didn’t hesitate to reach over and tuck a stray strand behind her ear, his fingers drifting across her cheek. 

“I’ve got beer in the fridge,” she whispered. “Follow me back to my place?”

His gut was jumping in anticipation all the way back to Donna’s place, though he wasn’t expecting anything to happen, just hopeful that something would.

Donna’s house was on the outskirts of town, sort of off the beaten path, tucked in a stand of trees out of sight. Dean parked behind her police cruiser in the driveway and followed her through the front door. She offered to take his suit jacket, hanging it on a hook by the door, alongside her coat and gun. She grabbed him a beer from the kitchen and told him to make himself comfortable while she changed her clothes.

He did, rolling up his shirtsleeves and loosening his tie before taking a seat on the overstuffed, though very comfortable couch. Donna wasn’t gone long, just a few minutes, now out of her uniform and in a pair of yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt. She dropped to the opposite end of the couch as him, a beer in her hand. She rubbed her bare foot against the carpet, staring at it.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

She nodded, twittering nervously. “Yeah, just like you did ten years ago. I’m...I’m so out of my league with you that it’s not even funny.” She twisted the bottle in her hand, still refusing to look at him. He could see her hands shaking.

He slid over until he was sitting just inches from her. He rested one arm on the back of the couch, not touching her. “I can go if you want,” he murmured.

She finally turned to look at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She stared up at him with those gorgeous brown eyes and slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I want you to stay.” She pushed herself up and into him, kissing him, taking him by surprise.

He let his arm fall to her shoulders, wrapping it around her and pulling her against him. Her head tipped back and he kissed her, one hand sliding up to rest on the side of her face, cupping it in his hand, his thumb caressing her cheek.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he murmured. “You’re the one out of my league.”

* * *

_ He really doesn’t want to leave her without saying goodbye, so maybe he intentionally woke her up, turning on the light and letting it wash over her. He sits in a chair by the bathroom, lacing up his boots, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She sits up after a couple of minutes, squinting, her hair tousled, sexy, her lips still swollen from his kisses. His cock twitches with interest, but he tamps that feeling down quick. He has to leave, he can’t keep Dad waiting. _

_ “Hey.” He gives her is best smile. “Sorry I woke you.” _

_ “S’ok,” she murmurs.  _

_ Her hair is falling in soft, wavy curls around her face and she’s holding the sheet to her breast with one hand, her milky white shoulders exposed. He wants to kiss them, run his tongue over them, trace the line of her collarbone with his fingers, maybe feel her shiver as he touches her again. God, he wants it bad. _

_ He finishes with his boots, then crouches next to the bed. He pushes her hair out of her eyes and kisses her on the forehead. “Thanks for tonight,” he says. “It was fun.” There’s a million other things he’d like to say, but he’d come across as crazy and stupid, instead of endearing and charming, so he keeps his thoughts to himself  _

_ She nods and he kisses her again, almost has to force himself away from her. He grabs his jacket, slipping it on as he stands at the door. He’d rather toss it on the chair and crawl back into bed, make love to her for the rest of the night, stay with her as long as he can. But he doesn’t. He gives her another smile.  _

_ “See ya, sweetheart.”  _

_ He doesn’t look back, because if he does, he’ll stay. And as much as he would love to stay, maybe forever, duty calls. He’s twenty minutes outside of town before he realizes he didn’t get her name. _

* * *

He doesn’t want to leave, not again, not like last time. But the text from Sam told him to get his ass back to town, now. He thought Donna was asleep, but as soon he tried to slide his arm out from beneath her, she spoke up.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I need to get back. Just got a text from my partner.” Except he didn’t get up right away, but instead slid the blanket down her shoulder and pressed soft kisses all over her neck and upper arm, moving steadily closer to her mouth, finally catching her lips in his, his tongue tracing her lower lip, all while his hands continually roamed over her body. He was trying to memorize everything about her, every perfect curve, every inch of her creamy white, soft skin. He wanted to hold this memory, just like that first night together, hold them and keep them, not letting them go. She was one of the good memories. She would always be one of the good memories.

Dean held her hand as he walked to the door, their fingers laced together. He liked the way it felt. He stopped and leaned his weight against the doorframe, Donna right up next to him. She reached past him and grabbed his suit jacket from the hook, clutching it in both hands, staring at it rather than him. Reluctantly, she held it out to him. He took it and slipped it on, reached into the inside pocket and pulled out one of his FBI cards. He pressed it into her hand.

She turned it over and over, examining it. He could see the tears welling up in her eyes. He put his hand beneath her chin and tilted her head back, kissing her, quick and hard.

“I gotta go,” he whispered. “Don’t lose that card.” He yanked the door open, hurried down the steps, climbed into the car and turned over the engine. 

This time he did look back as he pulled out of her driveway, looked back to see her standing on her porch, a small smile on her face, his card in her hand. He looked back and promised himself that this wouldn’t be the last time he’d see her, now that he knew where to find her. He wasn’t letting her get away again.


End file.
